Muse
by Countess Millarca
Summary: Sometimes words need not be spoken through tongue but art.


**Disclaimer: I do not own InuYasha. All credit belongs to Takahashi, Rumiko.**

"_I think it was a publicity stunt to draw attention. Whoever has heard of silver hair and golden eyes before? It's hair dye and eye contacts for sure!"_

"_His playing is superb, but that unusual coloring... I don't think he needs to result to such measures for fame. On the contrary, he appears fake as a person no matter his worth as a pianist."_

"_Undeniably, a true talent; unfortunately, he possesses the eccentricity of one, too. I heard he never leaves his house unless it's for a performance – a mute recluse!"_

Kagome turned off the television, her thumb tapping the remote with unnecessary force. _Vultures_. She would never understand how the media and these so called 'critics' could both praise and slander a person without even trying to verify their absurd hypotheses first. She had felt the acidic burn of their tongues on more occasions than she would like to recall, but nothing in comparison to this man – Taishō, Sesshōmaru. They had been raving for months now about the charismatic pianist and the spectacular concerto he had performed for philanthropic reasons after ten long years of absence from the musical scene. He had been a child prodigy, winning contest after contest, yet one day he suddenly vanished with no news of his whereabouts. His glorious return had been the event of the year.

"Is it a wonder he doesn't want to attend these poisonous gatherings you label as 'interviews'?" Kagome snorted with mild irritation, remembering the last time she had agreed to appear on a TV show for young and talented artists. It had been an obtrusive and vicious assault of questions on her private life, with one or two queries regarding her paintings thrown carelessly in between the merciless interrogation. At least – as a painter – _her_ presence was not required at every art exhibition; unlike Sesshōmaru whose presence was demanded in every concert. The piano would not play itself after all.

Soft, melodic key notes broke through her murderous musings on behalf of the strange pianist. Kagome lowered her lids slowly, savoring the soothing caress of the dulcet tones on her agitated nerves. _Moonlight Sonata. _She had forgotten how many times she had heard him perform this piece by now, yet the magic of his music never ceased to entrap her in a weightless spell. Those people were insane if they thought he was a _fake. _If only they stopped to listen – truly hear – for a moment, they would be welcomed into a mythical world of mellifluous shades and emotions.

Thick, ebony lashes rose after he finished his piece, a contented sigh escaping her lips at the lovely afternoon treat. It was truly a pleasure to live in this apartment at times like these. Her real estate agent had warned her about the lack of soundproofing and the pianist on the floor below when she chose to buy this apartment, but she had merely brushed him off saying she enjoyed listening to music while she painted. However, never in a million years would she have imagined her mysterious piano god to be _him _– until that fated day on the elevator.

Kagome had been balancing a ridiculous amount of art supplies while trying to avoid colliding with any walls when she had stumbled on her own two feet instead – courtesy of her undesired clumsiness. She had lowered herself to her knees, attempting to gather the scattered paints and brushes when a curtain of snow-white had fallen from above, caressing the skin of her hands gently. Startled, her head had jerked up, her wide gaze drowning in a dark amber sea. Her vision had glazed over for a few seconds that felt like an eternity, seeing nothing but gold. That was the first time she had laid eyes upon Sesshōmaru – her elven prince of silence.

Kagome had many fleeting meetings with him since then, but she had never managed to utter more than a lame greeting to which he had always replied with an imperceptible nod. She would give anything to be able to hear his voice – just once. Yet, Sesshōmaru only spoke through nocturnes and elegies, guiding his slender fingers over piano keys to weave a tale of loneliness and loveliness. His hands were so much larger than hers, but wielded such elegance and grace; she had been unable to stop herself from falling for this taciturn man who looked like he belonged in one of Tolkien's stories. She had known then why he had never returned her greetings vocally – he merely _couldn't_.

Instead, Sesshomaru spoke through piano notes, while Kagome did the same but through her color brushes. She had not been lying when she had claimed that music was a source of inspiration for her even though she usually preferred soundtracks of her favorite movies to accompany her painting journey. Chopin, Beethoven, Rachmaninoff – she was familiar with their names, but not their awe-inspiring creations. Although, Kagome was certain that musical pieces were – like her paintings – in the eye and ear of the beholder. She was vaguely aware of having listened to unidentified classical works in the past, yet they had never left such a deep impression on her. Artists pour their souls into their canvas, even one delicate stroke of the brush is a part of themselves. Kagome believed Sesshōmaru to be the same; every single tap of his pads was a word he could not speak.

"I wish you _could _speak to me though – how I wish," Kagome murmured in a melancholic whisper, perusing her latest painting with aching adoration. A canvas bathed in obsidian and silver woe, a portrait of a solitary man playing the piano. White, slender fingers danced over keynotes, playing a statuesque melody of hope. Unable to watch the painful radiance of her own sorrow reflected in the shaded paper, she wrapped it up carefully in a simple white cloth.

For the first time since her arrival to this apartment building, Kagome decided to take the stairs lest she chanced upon Sesshōmaru and changed her mind. She had finally mastered the courage to give this painting to him, her soul – she wished for him to have it. Taking a deep breath, she gave herself the final push she needed and rang his doorbell. The dark mahogany door slid open after a few seconds, revealing a face she knew so well it almost pained her to see it again. He looked as if carved from stone, angelic features etched in a perpetual serene expression. She put her precious package down then smiled a sweet smile at him and took his hands within her own, her thumbs caressing intricate patterns on his knuckles.

"I'm sorry for taking such liberties, but I just wished to feel the hands that make such divine sounds – just once," Kagome uttered in a low voice, eyes cast upon their conjoined hands, not daring to look within his golden depths for fear of sharing his silence. She then released him and picked up her most prized possession, placing it in his arms.

"I made this for you. I-I think you are perfect the way you are," she mumbled in a hushed whisper, before she turned to leave without raising her head. She couldn't bear to witness rejection in his eyes or – worse – indifference. Kagome didn't know what she had expected from him, but all this felt like a tragic mistake now. She closed the door of her apartment, her back sliding against the cold wood as tears welled in her misted eyes. She was minutes away from breaking into shivering sobs when a sweet melody reached her ears from below. This piece – not Beethoven, or Chopin, or Rachmaninoff. No; this was her favorite piano piece of one of her movie soundtracks. She always listened to this song while she painted, usually so absorbed in her own colorful world that she never cared how high the volume became.

Translucent happiness painted her cheeks as she finally gave in and cried her heart out to the answering song of his soul. _Sesshōmaru, this is your voice; you are finally speaking to me._


End file.
